Nine Slices of Cake
by Wynsom
Summary: In TSOT, clever Mary Morstan knew the boys needed "to run" and urged them to pick a case, especially Sherlock who was definitely becoming obsessive compulsive about the wedding plans. This fanfic occurs in that split-second when John convinces Sherlock to pick a case. Comically played by Benedict and Martin, this moment is IMHO a precursor to darker events to come in HLV


_In THE SIGN OF THREE, clever Mary Morstan knew the boys needed "to run." Working both sides of the room, she urged each of them privately to pick a case that would help the other cope with pre-wedding excitement and demonstrate they could continue the partnership post-wedding. _

_Sherlock definitely needed to substitute a case for his obsessive preoccupation with the wedding plans. John needed it too, although his normalcy masked the underlying unrest he felt when not engaged in an adventurous challenge._

_This tiny slice of a scene occurs in a split-second moment when John finally convinces Sherlock to pick a case. While it is comically played by Benedict and Martin in the BBC series, it is IMHO a precursor to darker events to come in HLV._

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**NINE SLICES OF CAKE**

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**"Please. Sherlock. For me?"**

John's simple request triggered something in Sherlock: What _**wouldn't**_ he do for John Watson?

The fast-approaching nuptials had stirred a frenzy of challenges in the consulting detective's ordered world. Perseverating about John and Mary's wedding was all Sherlock could do lately.

Yes. They had been spending inordinate amounts of time testing the scents of eighteen different perfumes, nine varieties of cake which admittedly to John's plebeian palette "tasted identical." There was no denying John needed assistance in distinguishing purple from lilac; he didn't know anything about folding serviettes—would swans or the Sidney Opera House be suited for the décor?—nor was he at all anywhere _**close**_ to fathoming the strategic placement of guests by their social importance and relative hierarchy.

Fortunately Mary was an orphan, Mycroft had already been eliminated from the guest roster at his own request, and John's diminished family left him with few cousins and a more than likely no-show sister. Even so, situating Major James Sholto, John's former _(not yet RSVPed)_ Commanding Officer _(a rival "best" friend?) _at the perfect table required masterful precision. Wedding preparations were exhaustingly absorbing.

_It was a good thing they had Mary to help._

In the past, he had used his obsessive-compulsive-like analytical skills to distinguish the differences in 243 varieties of ash and to understand the subtle symptoms of all kinds of poison. His extraordinary mental acumen had always been quick to link weather patterns, even the wind velocity, near a crime scene to determine the radius of possible clues and suspects. At every investigation, he could logically deduce the importance of the otherwise unobservable minutiae of soil, blood, hair, dust, water, oil, solvents, flakey skin, even lingering scents, to render accurate conclusions for NSY's Lestrade and his minions, or solve high-alert national-security cases for Mycroft—but after it all—solving the unsolvable was not as personally exhilarating (he discovered those two years away) if his confidante, his blogger, his partner, wasn't there to appreciate it.

For this unique element of satisfaction he could get no other way, Sherlock fixated on impressing John. Yes. He enjoyed impressing John because John enjoyed being impressed by him. Symbiotic! Like he and Redbeard had been.

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_"One mustn't get so involved." Mycroft warned. "Sherlock, you're obsessing like you did years ago over a dog!"_

_"Not true. Myrcroft. I have chosen to perfect this orderliness in my thinking. I am NOT engaging in any unreasonable thoughts and fears. Rather, my mental and interpersonal control helps me master my craft. This is deliberate order, not an uncontrolled disorder. In fact, I remain flexible, open, and completely efficient. A perfectionist, perhaps, but not afflicted with OCD, as you imply."_

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John is not a dog. He is a human being, a _real_ friend. What wouldn't he do for his real friend, John?

He owed him: For his life, for his sanity, for his developing humanity. And especially for the years of grief and despair that the kind, wise, and tolerant man suffered in his absence.

Where would he BE without John?

Alone.

Lacking successful interpersonal social skills at University,(long before John), Sherlock had been evasive of casual company, excepting for the one liaison with Victor Trevor… _and look how that turned out!_

"Not a very sociable fellow…Stayed in my room… " Inadvertently dropping his dispassionate and cold demeanor one night, several months after they had become cohabiters of 221B, Sherlock admitted to John, "…was rather fond of working out my own little methods of thought. Didn't mix much with the men of my year. Sure you can imagine my line of study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows. Actually, we had no points of contact at all….ah…ah…ah…" His keen eyes had grown wide with astonishment. He was saying this aloud, and another person was listening?

"Sherlock?" John had watched the expression on his companion's face stiffen.

Sharing such tidbits of personal history was still foreign to the solitary man. "Ah, ah, No! Delete this. My personal past is valueless," Sherlock shook his head, tucked his long legs under himself on his chair, and turned away in a dismissive huff, mumbling under his breath. "Must apologize for my moment of weakness."

Always attentive and extremely curious about his unusual flatmate, John had found Sherlock fascinating, to say the least—never boring for sure—yet, such a disclosure of personal history that wasn't about past cases was a rarity. Now this? Followed by an apology? _Shocking really!_

Genuine sincerity appeared in the doctor's dark blue eyes as he looked across at the lanky young man who had curled himself defensively into a ball. "I disagree. Your past formed you. There is value in it. Revealing important moments from the past is how people get better acquainted. That is what people do when they learn to trust each other. Sharing is NOT a weakness, Sherlock, IT's human."

"Weakness. Human. Same thing." The consulting detective had replied wryly and flitted from the room. "Conversation" that day had ended. However, each time another anecdote 'slipped,' Sherlock discovered an extraordinary thing. He actually felt stronger, fortified by every small, personal revelation shared with this trustworthy man.

Who would he BE without Dr. John H. Watson_? _

A consulting detective, _yaaas_! Still a freak, a high-functioning sociopath who uses his superior talent to discern clues that resolved cases, but whose untamed arrogance pisses off even the one supporter he has at the MET, DI Lestrade.

The now internationally famous "Sherlock Holmes" would probably have been nonexistent.

_Without John's cunning questions and exclamations of wonder over my systematized common sense, _Sherlock pondered,_ my own story is dry. This fame is the direct result of my blogger elevating my simple scientific art and rendering me a prodigy. He created the world famous hat detective...On the other hand, _**Sherlock Holmes**_, the man I am, would have likely been dead by now, if not for John constantly watching my back._

What wouldn't he DO for John to make up for all the hurt he caused him? Wouldn't he try to show more respect socially, to avoid offending those John cared for: Lestrade, Molly, Mike Stamford—even if most everyone else they encountered were such idiots. Except Mary. No she WAS different. She was smart and witty and perceptive and intuitive… despite being a manipulative (_in a good way) _woman. Beyond compare. She was a worthy companion, John's version of The Woman, a nice version, just like John was a nicer version of humankind.

How could he keep John happy—as his friend's happiness seemed intrinsically linked to Mary?

Ensure the marriage.

Cooperate. He must give a Best Man Speech for the best man he had ever known…because John Watson was the best human to enter his life. Despite the fact, John wasn't perfect—no, he couldn't fold serviettes, he couldn't keep track of his wedding plans, he didn't have his heart in details that were not medical or military—it didn't matter. If he had asked, Sherlock would have sampled ninety times nine slices of cake—all for John.

He didn't know why. He couldn't explain it. It eluded all cold reason and pure logic, but the simple truth was undeniable.

Sherlock realized his own passion for happiness _(if it could be called that)_ was subordinate to, yet intrinsically linked to, John's happiness. A dangerous obsession, this thing called love, loyalty, fidelity, commitment, friendship…it had taken deep root in his heart and soul. It compelled him to act. No matter what it required, whatever it would take, there was NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, he wouldn't do for John.

So, if he were displaying excessive deference to the only man he respected…he really couldn't help himself… and he didn't want to…What harm would come of it?

**"Don't you worry about a thing. I'll get you out of this." **

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As always, reviews welcomed! ;)


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